


The Torchlight Red

by moretroublethanthot



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, F/F, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sharing a Bed, Trans Enjolras, ambiguous time period, but only a brief mention because it's r, depictions of violence but nothing too bad, frankly disgusting amounts of pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moretroublethanthot/pseuds/moretroublethanthot
Summary: “Is it time?” Enjolras asks, wincing at his own noise. He looks resigned, and Grantaire feels guilt hit him like a punch to the throat. An Enjolras resigned is leagues worse than an Enjolras angered.Grantaire shakes his head. “No. he’s not coming for you.” He says, and Enjolras doesn’t look as though he believes a damn thing that Grantaire has said or plans on saying.“I told Batambois that you aren’t you. That they got the wrong man. I’m getting you out of here.”Two years after a betrayal sends them scattering, Les Amis de l'ABC begin to recover their ranks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this fic for months and I've finally got more than one chapter written, so here's the first! this isn't my first Les Mis fic, but I don't plan on deleting this one after five chapters like the last so... cheers?

“Do you plan on killing me, or do you simply plan on leaving me here as a wall decoration?” Says the imperious voice of a young man. The words earn him nothing but an unamused glance from the man lounging in the armchair across from him. The young man clenches his jaw sharp jaw, straining against the rope from which he has been suspended. His head pounds at the movement and his own noise, and he drops it forward as a wave of nausea rolls over him. When he had been taken, he had been disagreeable to the point of near escape, and his assailants, having been under strict orders, struck him across the back of the head as a precaution. He wants desperately to be able to lay down and close his eyes. To curl into a ball and sleep his injuries away.

The man in the chair, one of the men who had captured him, raises an eyebrow, tossing the book he had been reading to the side. He stays quiet, however, and leans forward with the air of someone too self-assured for his own good. His eyes run over the young man’s face, and the young prisoner, in turn, wants to turn away and hide from the eyes on him more than he wants to sleep.

The young man, unfortunately for himself, is quite pretty. His mother had passed along her wide, wondering eyes and her blond hair to him as well as her graceful movements. His father, a man called Monsieur Enjolras, an unfortunate man in all other respects, had passed along his haughty air and the golden cast to his skin.

The young man, a bastard child who has taken to going by his _distinguished_ father’s surname out of spite, glows with indignation at the hunger with which the man in the chair is looking at him. Enjolras begins to buck in his restraints, arching his back and thrashing from side to side for the sake of being a nuisance. It’s not like he’ll get himself anywhere. His bindings hold him about a foot off of the ground in a cleverly woven web of ropes. He has the sudden thought of a flea caught in a spider web, and he smiles to himself as he thinks about it. He has a friend who would tease him if the circumstances were different.

But, being as the situation isn’t different the gravity of it is suffocating. With this new thought, Enjolras’s thrashing shifts from deliberate annoyance to something more desperate as it strikes him just on his just how trapped he is. His chest heaves from vertigo and panic, and he’s distantly aware of the desperate noises he’s making. His mind becomes clouded with thoughts of how much of a lead this would give his father. His _father-_

“Stop that. Can’t have you hurting yourself before _Monsieur Enjolras_ gets here to collect you.” -has already found him, apparently.

Enjolras freezes, eyes snapping to the stranger. The stranger sighs and stands, walking to the door and opening it, murmuring something. Enjolras’ lungs feel to him as though they are failing as he realizes that the men who had taken him are men that his father had hired to track him. The men sent to bring him back to the darkness of a basement and clothing that is far too constricting. Hysteria digs roots into his throat at the thought of his father’s iron grip on his neck.

The stranger closes the door again and looks at Enjolras with amusement.

“You’re worth a pretty hefty sum, _Princess_ .” Enjolras wishes that the man would go back to ignoring him; it becomes very hard to think of an escape when presented with the desire and the inability to punch someone very cruel and very irritating squarely in the nose. The man, oblivious to the rage boiling within Enjolras leers at him. His eyes are hungry once again and he steps closer still. “Your papa is awful worried about you. So insistent that we bring you back.” The stranger’s stale breath hits Enjolras in the face as he draws close enough to touch, and Enjolras suppresses a gag. One of the man’s dirty hands spreads over the thin fabric covering Enjolras’ stomach over the ropes. With the other, he brushes a few tangled curls off of Enjolras’ forehead. Enjolras feels the tug of dried blood as the man repeats the motion, and he sees that his hair is plastered in places with blood. “And that you’re _alive_ when we do. ‘No harm may come to you’, and all that, or he’ll pay less. He didn’t give too much specification as to what harm is, exactly.” The hand on his stomach drops lower where his trousers would have been had the men left them on.

“What a shame,” Enjolras says with a sneer. It really is a shame, he thinks, because dying by the hand of this brute of a man is a far more enticing fate than whatever hell his father has prepared for him upon his return. It’s a shame, also, for the stranger’s salary, because Enjolras has no qualms about smacking his forehead into the stranger’s nose with a satisfying _crack_.

The man staggers back with a shout, and Enjolras’ eyes are blurred with spots of black. His head pounds worse than before, and yet there’s red dripping down onto the stranger’s hand, which is more than worth it. Enjolras hopes that he has angered the man enough to warrant a quick death. There’s not much left of him, as it is. It would only take a few blows, and then he could see Combeferre and, perhaps, Enjolras smiles to himself, even Courfeyrac. The man straightens up with blood running around his angry lips and swings a fist into Enjolras’s stomach. And then his ribs. Enjolras helpless against the onslaught and he no longer strains against the ropes, and then he is aware of the door slamming open, and he hears raised voices. He closes his eyes as his head throbs. His ribs throb. It’s so loud, and he wants to sleep so very much.

There’s a hand in his hair, and then a fist connects with his eye, and then his cheek, and then the fist is gone. After a moment of struggling, the loud voices move away and there is blessed, blessed quiet, punctuated by the snap of a door. Enjolras’s head hangs where it was dropped, and there’s copper on his tongue, though he does not notice it. He does not notice much by then.

The last thing he registers is door opening and a loud voice filling his senses and rattling his teeth. He can’t make sense of what’s going on around him. Doesn’t have the wherewithal to try.

 

A thin, sallow-looking man dressed in a blue greatcoat crosses the street towards the unlit space between two buildings with the air of someone who thinks himself far more important than he is. He winds his way around the loose cobblestones and the fragments of a cart that had been broken and subsequently abandoned. The man reaches the opposite end of the alleyway looking this way and that in confusion. He takes a slip of paper from his pocket and frowns down at it. The slip says this:

_Rue Saint- Thomas. The space between the second and third buildings from Rue Chanzy. Motorbike. Payment: 10 francs._

The man shoves the paper back into the pocket of his waistcoat, and turns. If it weren’t for the reputation of the woman who had sent him, he would have left the alley and sold whatever information the note contained. He hasn’t opened the letter either under the threat of being shot by the man he’s delivering it too. The woman had also told him that if he failed to deliver it by nightfall, he’d be dead once he reached Paris. It is because of this that the man murmurs a swear and turns to search the alley once more.

He comes face to face with a man in only a dark waistcoat and his shirtsleeves, and he flails backward. One of the heels of his boots, which are far too fashionable for this part of the city or for trying to deliver a message with discretion, catch on a stone. The man lands in a heap of rich fabric with an undignified squawk, his thin, unattractively wet lips hanging open in fear of the figure above him.

The man’s hair is unruly and dark, curling over his eyes like a veil when he leans down to inspect the man. The stranger’s dark eyes twinkle in the light, and the man now sees that his waistcoat is embroidered delicately and the same deep green of his cravat. A large motorbike leans on the wall behind him, and the man can’t imagine how this stranger snuck up on him trailing _that_ behind him.

“You have a message for me?” The stranger’s low voice has an air of amusement to it. The man hands him the letter, still sealed with it’s red wax. At the sight of it, the stranger’s eyes go wide and he loses his relaxed air. He pulls out a pistol from the side of the bike and aims it at the man on the ground. “My name’s Grantaire, and you, Monsieur, should learn to keep your hands to yourself. A gunshot ricochets off of the sides of the alley, but Grantaire is already speeding away towards Paris. The words on the page fill him with dread and hope, a terrible mixture that settles in his stomach like whiskey: _P.M. found him. Get your sorry ass back here, he’s not in good shape._

Grantaire is there before the sun has time to rise.

He hums noncommittally at the guard at the door when the man attempts smalltalk, finding the switches to each of the electric lamps and flicking them on. Bracing himself, he turns back to where he knows Enjolras must be strung up. Grantaire nods along to Batambois’ order to inspect the boy, and stands still until he the door shuts and he hears the lock being turned, and then Grantaire is across the room and pulling knots loose.

In the new silence of the room, Grantaire can hear the tight, high whine in each of Enjolras’s breaths, and he shoves down the sick feeling that bubbles in his gut. He’d kill Babet himself, Grantaire thinks as he clenches his teeth together and begins unraveling the intricate web with renewed vigor.

He frees Enjolras’ legs first, then his arms, letting each down to the boy’s sides gingerly. By the time Grantaire is working at the bindings around his chest, the boy is awake and is, without a doubt, Enjolras. Grantaire helps him lift his head up, taking in his bruised eye and split lip when he sweeps the dirty blond curls away from his face. There are purple bruises on his naked torso, too, and Grantaire, for a wild, hysterical moment, thinks that he’ll kill Babet’s sorry ass before Batambois so much as thinks about his pistol.

And then Enjolras’s big blue eyes flutter open the rest of the way, and Grantaire composes himself, tugging the final knot loose and holding the too-light body in his arms as Enjolras is finally freed. Enjolras lets out a pained whine in protest, and Grantaire thanks a God he no longer believes in that Enjolras is too far gone to recognise him. So he murmurs soft platitudes as he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around Enjolras, who is clothed in nothing but his shirt and has begun to tremble like a dead leaf in the wind.  

Enjolras’s eyes have dropped closed again, and Grantaire brushes a thumb over one high cheekbone in reverence. Enjolras lets his head drop into the touch in a movement so vulnerable and soft that Grantaire cannot breathe for a moment. He knows what he has to do.

There is no space for doubt in the mind of this man about the task which he must complete. He had, at one time, prided himself in his cynicism and had resolutely refused anything but doubt. But

He knocks on the door, letting the guard know that everything is fine as he unlocks it from the inside. When he opens the door, he’s pleasantly surprised to see a friendly face.

“Grantaire,” Éponine says warmly, although she’s looking at him with a fun combination of amusement and sympathy. “I heard the news.” She says as though she did not send him a letter by way of a lamb to the slaughter. Grantaire lets out a humorless laugh and opens the door wide enough so that Éponine can slip in. He waves man arm over towards the overstuffed leather chair that he had laid Enjolras in.

“ _Christ_. Babet did this?” Éponine asks, though it’s less of a question and more of a statement. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. Are you going to feed him to the wolves, then?” The knowing glint in her eye makes Grantaire want to punch her, but he just gives her a withering look.

“What do you think?” Grantaire snaps. Éponine chuckles, unphased, and claps his shoulder.

“I think I’m going to get a carriage ready.”

Grantaire relishes the look of relief on his employer’s face when he tells him that the boy Babet let loose on isn’t, in fact, the son of Claude Enjolras. “I thought I had a better lead near Chartres than the Batambois boys had near Le Havre. Guess I was right.”

Batambois nods. “That’s a relief. I’m glad you came so soon. I missed you. It’s good to have someone who knows how to do his job around here.” Grantaire smiles and inclines his head, imagining how easy it would be to slide a knife between Batambois’ ribs and get away with it. He’d do it too, if he didn’t think it would make getting Enjolras to safety exponentially harder.

“Thank you, sir.”

“But I can’t keep you all to myself, can I? No, no, we have three brats to catch still, after all, and you have places to be, I’m sure. Will you be off to Éponine’s tonight?”

“Probably. Éponine left to get a carriage ready. I’ll find a way to get the motorbike out of your hair, don’t worry.” He says lightly. The two share a smile. After that, Batambois stands to hand him a heavy envelope of francs, and Grantaire is left to his own devices.

 

It’s late, then, close to midnight, and Grantaire smiles as he lets himself into the holding room. He stops smiling, however, once he sees the state of Enjolras on the chair. He’s closed in on himself at some point between the time that Grantaire had left and returned, his head bracketed by his arms with his legs tucked to his chest as though he thought he might be able to fall between the cushions if he makes himself small enough. When the door closes, Enjolras starts, looking up blearily. He squints in the dim light, as though even the moonlight spilling through the window is too bright for him. When their eyes meet, Enjolras’s don’t quite focus, but he’s coherent enough for a look of recognition to flicker across his face. The recognition turns into disdain and Grantaire tries not to let it get to him, though a selfish part of him wishes that Enjolras wasn’t so alert already.

“Is it time?” Enjolras asks, wincing at his own noise. He looks resigned, and Grantaire feels guilt hit him like a punch to the throat. An Enjolras resigned is leagues worse than an Enjolras angered.

Grantaire shakes his head. “No. he’s not coming for you.” He says, and Enjolras doesn’t look as though he believes a damn thing that Grantaire has said or plans on saying.“I told Batambois that you aren’t you. That they got the wrong man. I’m getting you out of here.”

Enjolras scoffs weakly. “Just take me to him.” He sounds so hopeless and tired. There’s no real bite behind his words, and Grantaire is at a loss for what to say. It’s as if the figure in the chair really _isn’t_ Enjolras. Grantaire shakes his head, annoyed because annoyance is more manageable than the crippling sorrow that is quickly settling over his bones.

“I’m telling you the truth, Enjolras. I have a carriage waiting to get you out.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I’m fucking not. You know I wouldn’t lie to you.” Enjolras’s eyebrows shoot up and Grantaire wishes that he’d kept his fucking mouth shut for once. Enjolras draws himself up as much as his injuries will allow and he snarls.

“I don’t know that, actually. Combeferre has been dead now for two years from your bullet and Courf is presumed dead now as well. So I think I am more than justified in saying that I know a God-damned thing about what you would or wouldn’t do to me or anyone else.” The image of Combeferre with blood blooming across his stark white shirt from a bullet meant for Enjolras and Courfeyrac plasters itself behind Grantaire’s eyelids, and he feels sour, ugly guilt churn in his stomach like bile. Courfeyrac had been silent as he caught his friend’s failing body, but Enjolras had let out a guttural scream of rage as he had pulled his own pistol and landed shot in Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire had fled then, hopping onto his bike and revving the engine after he watched Enjolras retrieve Combeferre’s rifle from where it had dropped. He had always had a healthy amount of fear and reverence for the leader in red, so he wasn’t shocked when the second bullet clipped his cheek and the third caught him in the side. The fourth had lodged in his thigh, and when he had returned to the rendezvous, he had been half dead from blood loss.  

So he can’t exactly fault Enjolras for his mistrust.

“Can you walk? We need to be quiet.” Grantaire asks because there’s clearly no use in trying to convince Enjolras of his intentions. They don’t have time for their old arguments but Enjolras is opening his mouth, already preparing for one, and then he pauses to take stock of his body and grimaces. Grantaire thinks he hears him mutter, ‘just fucking shoot me’, under his breath, but he decides not to comment.

“I can try,” Enjolras says finally and unfolds his legs gingerly. His knees give out before he lets go of the arm of the chair, and Grantaire catches him for the second time that night, though this time Enjolras is tense and awake and waves of contempt roll off of him. He doesn’t look at Grantaire. “There’s your answer.” He spits, and Grantaire doesn’t respond, just loops one of Enjolras’s arms around his shoulders and wraps one of his own around Enjolras’s waist. Enjolras’s breathing comes in short pants, his eyes screwing shut in pain at the new position.

“To hell with this,” Grantaire mutters, unable to stand such a look on Enjolras’s face. He lifts Enjolras quickly, ignoring his involuntary whine at the sudden movement. “It will be faster this way.” He doesn’t know why he’s justifying himself when he knows that Enjolras doesn’t care. Well, no, he knows exactly why he’s justifying himself to him. It’s the same reason he lied to Batambois. Enjolras is silent, extracting his arm from around Grantaire’s shoulders and folding it to his chest. Grantaire doesn’t remember him being this light and he can’t help but wonder exactly what has gone on in the years they’ve been apart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the plot thickens

Enjolras blinks awake, wincing at how painful it is to breathe when he's coherent enough. He’s in a room that he doesn’t recognise, and when he shifts he can feel bandages around his ribs. The dim light of the fire is too bright and he closes his eyes against it. He thinks vaguely of falling asleep on the carriage with Grantaire’s impossibly dark eyes trained on him- and then he notes that he is very much alive and decidedly not in any room he recognises, so he can only conclude that Grantaire wasn’t lying. He’s not alert enough to decipher the flood of emotions that the knowledge brings.

There’s a fire crackling away merrily in the hearth and there are mismatched skins and carpets lining the floor. The air of the room gives off the sense of having been worn and lived in and safe, although Enjolras absolutely does not feel safe in any way at all. So he lies back and closes his eyes, figuring that maybe he can get a little more sleep before his bad luck catches up to him.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s panting and sweating, shaking out of fear for a dark figure looming over him. Or rather, a dark figure that he had dreamt up like he’s nine years old again. Enjolras scoffs at himself, groaning as he fights his aching body in search of a comfortable position. He can’t find one, to his dismay, now that he’s coherent enough. So instead he struggles into a sitting position and takes stock of the room. It still looks as warm and lived in as when he first woke up, and someone has since put new logs in the fire. It all seems disturbingly familiar, and he can’t put his finger on why, so he gingerly steps out of the bed to take better stock of the room. There is a large, overstuffed armchair by the fire with a coat draped over the back and a there are books stacked and scattered on the night table and desk. A collection of medicine bottles and bandages seems to be stashed inside of the shelves, and Enjolras picks one up, to examine the label. With a jolt, Enjolras places the familiar layout of the room in a memory gone stale of the course of two years. The writing on the label of the bottle and the papers on the desk is unmistakably Combeferre’s.

Electrified, he tugs a soft fleece blanket off of the bed and around his shoulders. He takes shaky steps toward the door, breathing as evenly as he can manage through the throbbing in his head and his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Enjolras knows that there’s very little chance that Combeferre is there. He had been proclaimed dead within an hour of Enjolras and Courfeyrac getting him help, but they had been found out before they saw him buried, so there had been a fragment ofhope in the weeks following his loss of his friend. After a couple of months had passed and Courfeyrac had disappeared, Enjolras’ hope had worn thin.

When he pushes the door open and steps out, the hardwood of the floor is cold against his bare feet and the air passes through his nightshirt as though it isn’t there. He closes the door and leans against it to steady himself as he takes in his options. The room he awoke in is the furthest away from the stairs, irritatingly enough, but Enjolras can only think of the familiarity of that room and how, of Combeferre is alive and present, he has to see for himself, injuries be damned.

So Enjolras throws caution to the wind and begins his walk down the unfamiliar hall. No one seems to be behind the other doors lining the hallway, and he’s thankful for that reaches the stairs, clutching the railing tightly as he makes his way not-so-quietly down them. He reaches the bottom and it’s considerably warmer than the floor above, and he sees the gold flickering of firelight flung up against the wall from around a corner. Enjolras hears the murmur of conversation and it’s all the encouragement he needs to amass the remnants of his hope and investigate.

Enjolras stops dead in the doorway, eyes wide as he trembles at the sight before him. The room holds a handful of people eating and drinking, and Enjolras tenses when he spots Grantaire gesturing with a bottle by the fire as he speaks to- to _Bahorel_.

His breath catches in his throat and he casts his eyes around the room again to see Feuilly talking to the woman who had driven him and Grantaire here, and Jehan next to him, and it feels as though someone has punched him in the stomach, because _don’t they know what Grantaire has done_?

Enjolras feels anger shoot sharp and cold into his veins, and he means to start shouting before the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He looks up from Grantaire and casts his eyes around the room to see Combeferre alive and well and gazing right back at him.

 

Enjolras looks almost ghostly, Combeferre thinks, as he notices his friend in the dark doorway. He knew, theoretically, that Enjolras would not put too much care into his own well being regardless of whether or not he and Courfeyrac were with him, but to tend to his wounds in the forgivingly soft light of day and to see him trembling and close to gaunt in the firelight are two different things entirely. He catches himself staring at Enjolras as soon as the boy himself does, and he’s crossing the room before Enjolras’ injured brain can catch up to what he’s seeing.

Enjolras makes a small, involuntary noise and flings himself at Combeferre, shaking in earnest now. The conversation in the room stops at the commotion and all eyes turn to them, but Combeferre has eyes only for the blond head pressing into his chest. Enjolras, in his relieved delirium, seems to be trying to press himself into Combeferre through both cloth and skin, and Combeferre finds that he cannot fault him for that, because he has to remind himself of Enjolras’ cracked ribs so that he doesn’t hold him too tightly. He presses a soft kiss to the crown of his friend’s head and allows himself to grieve for the year and a half that he had thought Enjolras lost.

“You died,” Enjolras whispers into his chest. “You- they said you would be gone within the hour.” Combeferre puts a hand around the back of Enjolras’ neck, trying to rub the tension away. Old habits die hard, and all of that.

“I didn’t die, I promise. I’m here.” He tries to reassure, heart breaking at how small Enjolras sounds. He sounds the same as he did when he had woken from nightmares next to Combeferre after taking refuge in his house. Enjolras had been twelve then and, if Combeferre memory serves him correctly, he would be turning twenty at the end of the month. The regression is jarring.

He wishes, not for the first time, that they had found Courfeyrac too because then there would be someone to fill the suffocating gaps in their exchange. They aren’t the same without all three of them, but he doesn’t mention it, because he knows that Enjolras is in a delicate enough state as it is. “I’m here, and it’s okay. Say it back to me.” He says into Enjolras’ hair, so softly that no one else will hear.

“You’re here,” Enjolras says after a pause, shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “You’re here. You’re alive. You survived the-” Combeferre feels the exact moment that Enjolras remembers Grantaire’s presence in the room, and he can’t deny himself the satisfaction of seeing Enjolras round on him. He keeps one trembling hand in Combeferre’s though, and he knows that it’s just as much for comfort as it is for Combeferre to reel him back in. Again, old habits.

Grantaire, to his credit, looks properly terrified as he is pulled into the focus in the room. When Éponine had led him into the house late one night about six months after he had shot Combeferre, he had taken one look around the room- which, at the time had only held Combeferre, Musichetta, Jehan and Gavroche- and he had frozen. Éponine had, of course, said that she worked with a man who asked for cases tracking Les Amis _specifically_ , and she had asked them if the name Grantaire meant anything to them. Combeferre though that Jehan’s eyes would fall out of their head in shock. But they had all agreed that they would be able to face Grantaire in all of his traitorous guilt. Grantaire himself was caught completely unaware, and Combeferre thought he would never be more satisfied with seeing someone so frightened, especially one of Les Amis.

In a rare occurrence, Combeferre finds himself mistaken, because it takes every ounce of self-control not to laugh at the expression on Grantaire’s face. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand instead, and Enjolras finally, _finally_ , opens his mouth.

“So you’ve had a change of heart, have you?” Is all that he asks, and it’s so much less than he could say, but Grantaire looks like Enjolras has stabbed him with his icy tone. His face darkens and he looks away towards the flames popping and crackling in the hearth, the only other source of noise in the room aside from Enjolras’ slight wheeze. Enjolras seems to genuinely be asking because he takes a step closer to Grantaire. Bahorel looks between the two, looking just as vindictive as Combeferre feels, and just as relieved to have Enjolras back with them. They had all trusted Grantaire to some extent, but Bahorel had been one of the closest with him. He had drilled Grantaire for almost an hour after Éponine had dumped him into the hands of the remnants of Les Amis, and the two had ended the conversation on decent terms. But to the surprise of no one at all, there had still been times where Bahorel held him at an arm’s length.

Enjolras continues to speak as though Grantaire had responded. “I understand that some here are more forgiving than me, but I need to make it clear to you that _if_ you saved me in the hope that I would be more forgiving, you should have handed me to my father because it doesn’t make a difference either way. You are a _coward_ and a and a _traitor_ and a _liar_. You are not capable of being anything but.”

Grantaire lets out a long breath and nods, taking a swig from his bottle, and only then does he speak. “I’m an idiot, sure, but I’m not foolish enough to think anything I do might change your mind. I was never that disillusioned” He still won’t look at Enjolras, and Combeferre thinks that it’s probably for the better as much as he knows that Enjolras hates it. “But yeah, I suppose you could call it a change of heart.” Grantaire stands and places his bottle on the table and sidles past Bahorel to the door. “I’ll leave you to your reunions.” He says, and then he’s gone.

Enjolras makes to follow him, still angry, and Combeferre tugs him back. That conversation won’t help either of them, and he can see Jehan itching to launch themselves at Enjolras. “You’ll have time to go at him later.” He says at Enjolras’ accusing glare. “But now you need to sit down and I believe that there are some people here who’d like to say hello.”

For the first time, Enjolras seems to register that this is the first time in a long while that this many of Les Amis have been in a room at the same time. Entranced, he looks past the unfamiliar faces and to each of his friends. They all stare back at him with matching looks of wonder, and in Jehan’s case, watery eyes and joy. He opens his mouth to address them as he might have two years ago, then closes it, and as he does he sways dangerously. It breaks the silent spell that had fallen over the room, and Bahorel stands so that Enjolras can sit in his place on the worn leather couch.

The fact that Enjolras lets himself be manhandled into a less strenuous position is a testament to how bad he must be feeling, and Combeferre would force him back into bed if he wasn’t certain that both the leader and the rest of their friends would protest it vehemently, so he keeps his mouth shut. Enjolras thanks Bahorel with a smile and press of his hand and Bahorel grins at him, saying, “it’s good to have you back.”

 

Éponine makes her way over after the rest of them have had their tearful reunions and have surrounded Enjolras on couches and chairs with food. Jehan has left just left his place at Enjolras’ side to go make tea and Éponine motions to the seat next to him. When he nods, she settles down and holds out her hand for him to shake. He clasps her hand firmly, giving it a single shake, and she smiles.

“Long time no see.” She begins with, just because she knows it will fuck with him and she can’t resist. “I’m guessing you don’t remember me.” She says, and she’s amused at how his eyebrows draw together and he scans her face. Slowly, he says, “I’m assuming that you’re not referencing my... _escape_.”

“You assume correctly. Does the name ‘Éponine’ ring a bell?”

Enjolras gapes at her, completely caught off guard, and Éponine grins. “Imagine my shock when your name went up in the papers. I’m guessing being saved by daddy dearest wasn’t the song and dance we all thought it would be.” That gets a laugh out of Enjolras, effectively shaking him out of his stupor.

“Yeah, he chose the wrong twin to take, too.” His voice is hushed, and Éponine can take a hint, so she drops hers as well.

“A man came for Cosette not long after. He said your mother had passed.” Enjolras looks like someone slapped him, and he leans closer to her, cautious of the handful of strangers who still linger in the room.

“Who?”

“Some man who said your mother had sent him there to get you after she died. Older guy, strong as anything and rich by the look at him.” Éponine knows that her emotions are showing on her face, but she doesn’t try to stop it. Enjolras had been like her brother for those years the twins lived with her family, and she knows that he’s the last person to use anything against her. “I haven’t heard from her since.” Enjolras deflates, slightly, and then, to her surprise, pulls her into a hug. She hugs him back as gently as possible after a moment of shock. Enjolras and Éponine had never been the ones to initiate physical contact. Of the three, it had always been Cosette who had to have a hand on each of them whenever they were in the same space.

It makes sense to her that, without Cosette, his twin there to provide, Enjolras would take up the mantle, Not that Éponine minds at all. She had been expecting awkwardness at best and, at worst, unrecognition.

But she couldn’t have been further off the mark. Enjolras ends up passing out sandwiched between Combeferre and Éponine, clutching tightly to both of them. They share a conspiratory smile over his head before Combeferre asks Bahorel to carry Enjolras to bed. Éponine watches the blond head retreat before she sighs heavily and stands.

“Well doctor,” she nods to Combeferre. “I have a brother to put to bed and a sister to wrangle into a bath, so I will see you bright and early.”

Combeferre removes his glasses to rub his eyes. He looks drained by the past couple of days, not that Éponine can blame him. From what she understands of the original group, he had spearheaded the movement with the help of Enjolras and their friend Courfeyrac. Trying to piece together a scattered revolution, she imagines, is far too much for just one person to take on. And yet, Combeferre rises and gives her a smile. “Yes, I’ll leave you to it. Make sure you get some rest.”

“You too,” Éponine says forcefully. “You’re not going to be much help to anyone if you pass out on the job and you look dead on your feet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which an old man is met and a young man is charming (hint: it's not enjolras).

Grantaire is up and out of the house before the birds begin singing and before Gavroche wakes up to pester him. He loves the little boy like his own brother, but after Enjolras’ return, it’s taken even less than usual for his fingers to itch for the cool neck of a bottle. He knows that sitting around and drowning himself in drink is no longer an option; he needs to be as alert as possible to what’s going on around him. He needs to be the first to catch wind of any scrap of information he might be able to pick up about the whereabouts of the other members of Les Amis. 

With spring fast approaching, the snow that covers the ground is melting, running in muddy little rivers between the uneven cobblestones of Maintenon, and the world smells rich with new beginnings. It smells of new hope. 

Grantaire takes a deep breath in, turning his face toward the rising sun and smiling as he exhales. Despite the circumstances, he’s glad to finally have found Enjolras. A week had passed since he had carried a delirious Enjolras to Combeferre’s room so that he and Jehan could wash and tend to his injuries, and five days since Enjolras had emerged, flame rekindled, to greet all of them. 

Well, to greet Les Amis and to give Grantaire a piece of his mind, which is just as well. Grantaire hadn’t expected to come out of the initial reunion alive, let alone a week in the same house as Enjolras. 

There’s a man leaving a tailor’s shop on Rue de la Treille, and by the taut lines of his shoulders that he isn’t at all happy. He can also tell from his own frequent stays at the Inn across the way that this man has only arrived at the town that morning. Grantaire, with all of his charisma hated by Enjolras, finds that he has the easiest time of gaining the trust of locals within a few stays in comparison to the other members of Les Amis. 

The man is dressed in a deep green coat which hangs open to display a fine grey waistcoat. A wealthy traveller then, Grantaire decides as he eyes the champagne-coloured silk cravat sitting in a knot at the base of his throat. He catches the man’s eye with his most charming smile, raising a hand in greeting. 

“Good morning, Monsieur,” Grantaire says, making to go past him into the tailor as though it had been his intention all along. 

The old man looks shocked at having been addressed, and it takes him a breath to respond. “Excuse me, do you know your way around this town?” The old man’s voice is gentle and thoughtful despite his apparent state. “I am looking to visit my daughter, and I cannot seem to find the address at which she is staying.” He explains. Grantaire sees his eyes flicker over him cautiously, as though looking for weapons, so Grantaire spreads his hands and attempts to look as unassuming as possible. This strange old man gives Grantaire a sense of familiarity, though he can’t place it.

“I would be happy to help you.” The old man looks relieved. 

“Thank you.” He bobs his head and fishes a letter out of his pocket, eyes flicking around before he lowers them to the page. “She is staying in number 24, Rue des Lys.” 

“We could take a carriage if you would like,” Grantaire says, “Rue des Lys is half an hour’s walk from here.” But the man is already frowning and shaking his head. 

“If it is all the same to you, I should like to walk.” He says firmly, and Grantaire has sense enough not to press the matter. 

Thus, they begin their walk through the town. The man introduces himself as ‘Monsieur Leblanc’, and Grantaire knows immediately that it is not his real name, though he doesn’t comment. He introduces himself truthfully, and M. Leblanc shakes the hand he offers. He moves his arms in a strange manner, that Grantaire can only guess that he’s hiding something on his wrists, or his right shoulder is injured. Or, perhaps, both. He doesn’t comment on this either, and instead, he attempts to strike up a conversation as they walk. The old man seems to listen to what Grantaire says despite his one-word answers, so Grantaire takes the hint and begins relaying anecdotes about the town and the people that live in it so M. Leblanc doesn’t feel as though Grantaire is interrogating him. 

By the time they reach Rue des Lys Grantaire has coaxed a low chuckle out of him along with several smiles, and it’s enough, apparently, to have won him another handshake when they reach the address. It’s a small house, closer to cottage than anything. A vase of flowers can be seen through the window, peeking out from behind white curtains and Grantaire is charmed by the small flowerbed in front.

“Well,” M. Leblanc begins, pressing Grantaire’s hand. “Thank you. If you are ever in need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Grantaire is taken aback and he smiles crookedly, pressing the rough and gentle hand in return. “It’s no problem, really.”

The old man only inclines his head with a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t be a stranger, Monsieur Grantaire. Good day.”

  
  


“You have no idea how glad I am to have had the surgery done before everything happened.” Grumbles Enjolras, wincing as Combeferre prods at his ribs. “I can’t imagine having to bind with cracked ribs. Again- owch!” 

“You wouldn’t be binding with cracked ribs at all,” Combeferre says, innocently pretending that he hadn’t just poked at a bruise. 

“I absolutely would.”

“I would tie you to your bed and gag you if you tried. I could prevent you from going to meetings until you agreed with me. Doctor’s orders.” 

“You wouldn’t!” Enjolras says after a pause, looking scandalized. They both make no mention of the space between their banter that should have been filled by Courfeyrac, although Enjolras sees sadness flash through his friend’s eyes. 

“I absolutely would.” Combeferre throws Enjolras’ words back at him with a grin. “Alright, put your shirt back on, you should be alright as long as you don’t make any sharp movements. And provided that you don’t overexert yourself.” Enjolras slips his shirt on, tucking it into his trousers. 

“Yes, alright.” The words come out far more clipped than Enjolras intends them to and he backtracks quickly. “I- didn’t mean to sound so terse. Sorry.” 

“You’re fine.” Combeferre sounds more amused than anything as he packs his supplies back into their various bags and shelves. “If you weren’t gruff about taking care of yourself I’d almost be worried.”

The two trail into comfortable silence after that. Enjolras reads over an intelligence report from one of the newer members, frowning. His discontent isn’t caused by the report. Rather, it is caused by the conspicuous lack of all things Grantaire from the house that morning. 

“Ferre?” He asks. Combeferre hums, not looking up from whatever work he’s scratching away at on his desk. “Grantaire is not usually asleep at this hour.” Another affirmative hum. Enjolras folds the edge of one of the pages in his hand absently. “Then why do I not hear him?” It’s not that Enjolras enjoys the sound of his voice at the tender hour of seven o’clock every morning. He’s simply suspicious of the man, despite having had the situation explained to him by Combeferre several times. No one knows exactly why he began spying on them during meetings, and Enjolras feels that he will always hate him regardless of his motivations. 

“He goes to scout for other original members. He’s in Maintenon for the week.” Combeferre informs him, distracted and unaware of how this new information makes Enjolras bristle. 

“A week?” He demands hotly. Combeferre hums, turning a page. “A  _ week _ ?” He asks again, and the awkward break in his voice is enough to make Combeferre look up at him. 

“Is there an echo in here?” He asks blithely. 

“How can he be trusted to not sell us out while he’s gone off on his own. He’s done it before, what’s to say he won’t do it again.” 

Combeferre opens his mouth only to be cut off by a third voice. “Because, contrary to popular belief,” Enjolras yelps, startled at Eponine’s intrusion, and Combeferre stifles a laugh. Eponine leans against the door frame and raises an eyebrow at both of them, challenging. “ He doesn’t actually have it out for any of you. He’s just a man who was scared for his friends and who went about it in, quite possibly, the worst way possible.”

Enjolras scoffs, though Combeferre has put his papers down and turned towards Eponine, intrigued. “Yeah, you give information about your friends that will obviously endanger them without their knowledge and then you claim that you did it to save them?” Enjolras’ lips curl into a grimace. “Forgive me for my lack of faith in him.” 

Eponine rolls her eyes, shooting a look to Combeferre for his support. “He has a point, you know. Granted, Grantaire has done a lot of good for us recently, but there are gaps in his story, and he  _ has _ done a great deal of bad.” He reasons with a shrug, trying to mediate. Eponine huffs out a sigh and crosses to one of the open windows. She settles on the ledge and looks between both of them thoughtfully. 

“Would you have listened if he told you that you needed to scatter until it was safe again?” She asked. 

“I,” Enjolras pauses looking down at the blanket on Combeferre’s bed and smoothing a hand over it. “No, I wouldn’t have.” He admits, and it hurts him to admit it. He would have scoffed at Grantaire’s claim and brushed him off had he sounded such an alarm. He would have been seventeen then- younger even- depending on when Grantaire began leaking information. It would make sense that Grantaire wouldn’t have tried, lest he draw suspicion. “It doesn’t change that he led them to us.”

“No,” Combeferre agrees, tapping his pen against his bottom lip. “But he didn’t want any of us hurt. The ends don’t justify the means, of course, but he was trying to keep us all from walking blindly to our own deaths.”

“Combeferre, he shot you.” Enjolras snaps, conflicted. Grantaire had tried to kill them when he caught up to them, and Enjolras had been under the assumption that he had been at least partially successful. He hadn’t had time to grieve properly either, trying to find Courfeyrac after they were separated and then just trying to stay alive when he caught wind of Courfeyrac’s assumed death. He hurts, still, regardless of what sent Grantaire into action. He hurts and he hates, and he can’t understand why no one else is as angry as he is. 

“He was aiming to miss.” Combeferre holds up a hand when Enjolras tries to retort. “Let me finish.” Enjolras snaps his mouth shut. “He told me that he was ordered to kill the three of us on sight if he found us. He planned to fire at us until we fired back and he would have an excuse to let us escape. I stepped in front of you both because I didn’t know, and I’m still alive, so it doesn’t matter.”

Enjolras gapes at him, blood draining from his face. “I shot him… four times? God, I  _ shot _ him.” 

“Listen,” Éponine says before Enjolras can even begin to think himself into a spiral. “R is one of my closest friends and I can say with confidence that, if given the chance, I would absolutely shoot him myself. Infuriating bastard.” Combeferre snorts.

“He did have it coming, and you didn’t kill him, so I’d say that you’re both even.” It doesn’t make Enjolras feel better, exactly. 

If anything, it makes him feel worse. As the week wears on, Enjolras finds himself tossing and turning beside Combeferre, trying to find sleep. It had never come to him easily, and yet the more Enjolras thinks of things to occupy himself with- looking for the rest of Les Amis, sifting through intelligence reports, penning essays under a pseudonym- his traitorous mind circles back to Grantaire. 

Grantaire the drunk, Grantaire the cynic, Grantaire the traitor, all of these things that Enjolras had come to know him as, infuriating, infatuating, incorrigible, now at odds with this strange new man Enjolras finds himself confronted with. 

He chides himself for it, angrily writing about any and every topic that he hadn’t been able to during his years on the run until, inevitably, his eyes droop and he rests his cheek in wet ink for the next few hours. He cannot stand the turmoil in his own mind, and at the same time, he cannot stand Grantaire for causing it. The night before Grantaire is expected to return, Enjolras reaches his conclusion. He is simply relieved that Grantaire had not killed Combeferre. It has to be the reason, of course, for the storm raging in his head. And the distance allowed him to forget how heated seeing Grantaire in person caused him to be. Once Grantaire returned and they were forced into proximity again he could go back to hating being infuriated with him for more simple reasons, and everything would move on. The world would keep turning and no more time would be wasted. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! this is mostly unedited but I needed to get it out sometime before classes swamp me again. if you have read prior to this update I have changed/ some things and added a scene with Grantaire in the first chapter! (Also, please bind safely and only when uninjured! Enjorlas is a little bit of an idiot and A Lot of a careless dick and should not be used as a reference!)
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments and thank you very much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a gift is given and an apology is offered.

Grantaire arrives back to the house in the empty space between midnight and dawn. There's a light room shared by Jehan and Bahorel and Grantaire smiles at the silhouette of Jehan knitting against the curtain. He can’t bring himself to ask to sit up with him, even though he knows that Jehan and Bahorel wouldn’t mind. They might even welcome it, but Grantaire can’t risk the rejection especially now that Enjolras has returned. 

He walks around the side of the house, having cutting the engine of his bike about a block away from the house. He leans it against the wall under his window and pulls himself up the wall to it, pushing it open and crawling. The house is fairly remote, but he doesn’t want to associate himself with the house lest someone recognize him. He doesn’t want to scatter Les Amis again, doesn’t need to now that they all have a healthy amount of mistrust for the world. 

He shuts the window and locks it. “Thanks Ép.” He says softly, not having to look around the room to know that she’s sprawled out on his bed. He receives a sleepy grunt in return and chuckles. “You didn’t have to stay up, you know.” 

“Uh huh.” Éponine grumbles. “I thought you should know that I did you more favors than your window and your hearth.” 

“You know that I know Gavroche and Anselma lit the fire for me.” He cuts in. 

“I’ll lock you out next time.” Éponine threatens. Grantaire holds up his hands in surrender. “Combeferre and I stuck up for your ungrateful ass against one of Enjolras’ tirades.” She says, though Grantaire is only half paying attention until he says  _ that _ name. He’s pulling off his dirty clothes, tossing them towards his closed door. That will be a problem for that afternoon’s Grantaire. For now, however, he’s tired and he has five hours to get drunk before he has to be mostly presentable. 

“I’m plenty grateful to you too Ép. Who else would drink with me when-  _ excuse  _ me?”  He turns to Éponine to gape at her. “ _ What _ did you say?” 

Éponine pulls a face at him. “Well, first of all, you’re  _ welcome _ . And secondly, it was barely anything you haven’t told all of them already, so you can calm yourself.”

“Éponine.” Grantaire says, and it’s meant to come out as a growl instead of the almost-whine. 

“Listen, R.” Éponine fishes a bottle out from under his bed and sniffs it’s contents. After a moment she shrugs and takes a swig. “You’re far more guilty than you should be over what happened. Your pretty boy even admitted that he wouldn’t have listened to you had you tried to tell them, which proves that you were in the right for that at least.”

“How the fuck did you manage to get him to admit that?” Grantaire asks, pointedly ignoring Éponine’s referencing Enjolras as  _ his _ . It’s an old dig from when Grantaire was drunk more often than not and Éponine was looking for somewhere to hide herself and her siblings from their parents. They had needed shelter, and he had needed company, and it worked out. 

He, according to Éponine, would slur out his praise some ‘boy god’ who was ‘trapped among mortals’ and would ‘bring about justice and freedom with his own two hands’, Éponine had informed him after he had (mostly) sobered up. He didn’t need to ask for more details about what he had said. He knew who he had been talking about. 

He sits heavily on the bed next to Éponine and grabs the bottle from her, taking a long drink before passing it back. The cheap whisky burns on it’s way down and Grantaire grimaces. 

“You keep forgetting that I’ve known him a lot longer than the rest of you. We’ve lived with my parents. You don’t exactly grow up in that house with other kids and leave it without a certain amount of trust.” Éponine punctuates her explanation with sips from the bottle. “And it’s hard to shake that trust. If I say that you’re safe, he’ll believe me, more likely than not.” 

Grantaire groans. “God, what did you say?” 

“It wasn’t all me.” 

“Okay, you and Combeferre. What did you say?” 

Éponine gives him a thoughtful look. “We convinced him that what you did wasn’t intended to harm them.” 

“Jesus.” 

“He feels bad for shooting you now.” 

“Okay,  _ that _ I doubt. You can’t tell me Enjolras is more forgiving around you too.” That earns him a bony elbow to his ribs. 

“He’s not.” Éponine concedes. “But he’s never anything but genuine.” Grantaire doesn’t know how to feel about that, so he stands back up with the now empty bottle. 

“I’m going to get something better than my stash from downstairs. Requests?” Éponine raises an unamused eyebrow at him but she lets him change the subject. 

“Yeah. Find out where Ferre hid that goddamn wine.” 

 

Grantaire does as he’s asked, padding down the hall and taking stock of who might be awake to stop him. Jehan, Bahorel and Fueilly’s light has gone dark. Combeferre’s light too, Grantaire notes with surprise, is off and there are no voices or sounds of glass coming through the door. Grantaire assumes that Combeferre worked a small miracle and managed to get Enjolras to sleep at a respectable hour. Or he drugged him. Grantaire can’t tell whether or not Combeferre is above such things, and he can’t say he wants to find out. After a cursory look around the rooms of the newer members on the second floor, Grantaire traipses down the stairs to try and find Combeferre’s newest hiding place. 

He’s ducking down to search under one of the couches in the common room when he hears a shift of fabric behind him. Tensing, he straightens up, ready to turn an unapologetic smile on whoever has caught him. 

The smile gets lost about halfway, however, when he turns to see none other but Enjolras standing in the doorway. Enjolras must have wandered down after Grantaire had, because his hair falls in loose, soft ringlets around his face and past his shoulders. In the dim light of the moon through the window, he looks almost angelic. Grantaire has to remind himself not to look past his crossed arms because Enjolras also appears to be wearing nothing but one of Combeferre’s nightshirts. 

“He moved the drink again while you were gone.” Enjolras informs him flatly. “Although, I believe he’s made his message about drinking quite clear.” Grantaire finds his smile and affixes it firmly. 

“I see no harm in a mouthful of wine, now and again.” He says. “As you well know. Even when we were children I always had a good taste for it.” There’s something unreadable about the way Enjolras is looking at him. He’s pulled his rosy bottom lip between his teeth and has begun to bit at it, and his blue eyes are alert and seem to be dissecting Grantaire where he stands. Grantaire wants to curl into himself, suddenly aware of his  _ own  _ state of half-undress. Enjolras doesn’t seem to see a problem with letting his eyes wander, to make the matter worse. He feels too big for the room suddenly, so he sweeps an arm out and falls back onto the couch. “But I can spare time in my search for you, oh golden Apollo.” An Angry Enjolras is better than whatever…  _ this _ is. 

Enjolras stops biting his lip in favor of curling his lip up at Grantaire. “You’re not as quiet as you think you are, and I wondered who was up at this hour.” 

“Besides you, you mean?” Grantaire asks before he can stop himself. Enjolras’ eyes narrow, pinning him in place. 

“Combeferre made me come to bed. He fell asleep and I was restless.” He says defensively, and Grantaire makes the connection in his head and feels as though Enjolras has shot him. Again. Not that he has any right to feel such a pang or jealousy when Enjolras speaks of going to bed with Combeferre. He had assumed, of course, that there was something going on within the triumvirate from the beginning, and even then at seventeen, his childish crush had filled him with guilt. Courfeyrac, at least, had been his friend too, and has most likely been aware of Grantaire’s problem. Nevertheless, he had been friendly and sympathetic whenever Grantaire’s moods took a particularly nasty dive. 

Combeferre, like Enjolras, had always been more focused and reserved, but it didn’t make Grantaire feel any better about the resentment he felt towards him. 

But his resentment didn’t make him less jealous, and Grantaire is forced at that moment to confront the fact that the full intensity of that particular feedback loop hadn’t faded with time. 

It doesn’t help that Enjolras is still standing there barely dressed and looking otherworldly. And that this is, perhaps, the longest they’ve gone without managing to get a rise of of the other in some way. Specifically, this is the longest Grantaire has gone without putting his foot in his mouth and pissing Enjolras off. 

“What about you?” Enjolras asks, shifting. He uncrosses his arms to brush a hair behind his ear and Grantaire’s heart skitters sideways at how soft he looks. 

“You already established what I’m doing here, Enjolras.” He says dryly. Enjolras huffs, frowning and crossing his arms again. 

“That’s not what I meant.” His words are clipped. “You’ve just got back, haven’t you? Aren’t you tired?” It sounds more like an accusation than a question so Grantaire raises his eyebrows, amused. Everything is a fight with him. 

“I’m always tired. I only have five- well, no, four hours- to be drunk. Sleep is less of a problem.” 

“You don’t have to drink.” 

“I do not.” Grantaire agrees, and is rewarded with a deeper frown. “I also do not have to bathe, but it is certainly a preference of mine.” To his shock, one of the corners of Enjolras’ lips quirks. It’s gone before Grantaire can truly revel in it, but it  _ was  _ there. 

“Stay there.” Is all Enjolras says before turning on his heel and retreating into the dark. Grantaire does as he’s told, absolutely baffled by Enjolras’ behavior now that he has a moment to breathe. This new, older Enjolras with longer hair and a soft smile. This new Enjolras that seems less inclined to jump down Grantaire’s throat at the first barbed comment. Considering what Grantaire has put him through, the apparent self control is the most mind boggling. He begrudgingly resolves to thank Éponine and Combeferre for talking to Enjolras. 

When Enjolras returns he crosses the threshold of the room and strides up to Grantaire as though bracing himself for a fight.

“Promise you won’t say anything about this.” Enjolras commands, glaring down at him. It must be a trick of the light, but Grantaire could swear that there’s colour high on Enjolras’ cheeks. The command is a bit ominous, but Grantaire nods anyway. Enjolras huffs, scowling. “ _ Promise _ . Not even Éponine.” 

“I promise I will not talk about whatever your hiding behind you.” Grantaire has no idea what he’s promising not to talk about, but the scowl drops off of Enjolras’ face and so he decides it's worth it. 

“Alright. I’m not telling you where the rest is, but here.” Enjolras reveals what he’s been hiding and holds it out to Grantaire. Grantaire blinks dumbly for a moment at the bottle of fine bourbon he’s being offered. Is he dreaming? He wonders as he looks between Enjolras and the drink. It’s bizarre. Enjolras glares harder at him, starting to pull it back. “If you don’t want it-”

“No, I do,” Grantaire says quickly, snapping out of his thoughts. He holds a cautious hand out. “I was just wondering how I fell into a reality where you, the beacon of chastity and sobriety, are offering  _ me _ an entire bottle of very expensive bourbon.” He explains as Enjolras rest the weight of it in his hand. 

That earns him a frown. “I also wanted to apologize for shooting you four times.” Enjolras says, releasing the neck of the bottle and stepping back. “Combeferre and Eponine explained a bit more of why you did what you did, and that you didn’t mean to actually shoot Ferre. So consider it a peace offering.” He sounds defensive again and Grantaire tries not to laugh at how completely strange this entire situation is. Laughing will most certainly whatever strange moment he’s living in, and he finds that he very much likes the cautious way Enjolras is looking at him. 

“Considering what you knew at the time, I cannot fault you for how you reacted.” He says. “And anyway, I’m too closely related to a roach to die. But if this is how you think to apologise,” Grantaire brandishes the bottle with a grin, “I can’t find it in myself to begrudge you anything.” As if he could begrudge Enjolras anything. 

The smile from earlier tugs at Enjolras’s lips, and Grantaire  _ wants _ , lord, he wants so badly to pull Enjolras close and his his smile into a grin. But he can’t, because Enjolras has Combeferre, and if he didn’t, Grantaire would be the last on the list of people Enjolras might accept a kiss from. 

“Please don’t drink all of that in one sitting.” Enjolras says, taking a step back and stifling a yawn into his hand. “I think I’ll be able to sleep finally. Goodnight, Grantaire.” 

“Goodnight, Apollo.” Grantaire says, unable to help testing his luck one more time. He receives one more inscrutable look over a shoulder, and then Enjolras is gone. Grantaire looks down at the bottle in his hand and then lifts his empty hand and pinches himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and comments!!   
> come say hi on tumblr, i’m @actioncausesmoretroublethanthot


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has an emotion, Anselma strikes a bargain, Combeferre worries.

Enjolras slips down into the cool cellar, feeling far too hot and flushed for the entirely innocent interaction with Grantaire. He presses his cheek to the stone wall, a tiny breath of relief slipping out of him. It’s cold against his warm face, and Enjolras hopes that it was too dim in the room for Grantaire to notice how flushed he must have been. How flushed and far too amicable for a leader interacting with a… a  _ what _ , exactly? 

A very handsome,  _ very _ shirtless man, his brain supplies unhelpfully. Enjolras groans in frustration and slides down the wall, covering his face with his hands and feeling too hot all over again. Of all the thoughts he should be having about Grantaire, these are definitely not in the realm of acceptable. Not even close. 

He had wanted to find some olive branch to offer him after speaking with Combeferre and Éponine, and when he heard a door open and a conversation about finding the wine (which he had helped Combeferre hide again after Gavroche got into it as an attempt to bribe Bahorel into doing him a favour in Grantaire’s absence) Enjolras had snuck after him. 

When it came to actually speaking to him, though, Enjolras found his words sticking to his throat like a bashful child. He wants to tear out his hair at the memory. 

His curls are saved from the attack by the pattering of bare feet against the cellar floor. Enjolras springs up silently, casting his eyes about. The breathing is that of a child’s and Enjolras places the footfalls. “Anselma?” 

“Achille?” 

“You aren’t supposed to be out without us knowing.” Enjolras admonishes as she comes into view. The girl shrugs, unabashed, and hugs him in greeting. She’s not yet taller than him, though she’s growing quickly and painfully similar to Eponine, so she’ll most likely have passed him by the next spring. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, remembering her as a toddler. 

“I think I’ve got something you’ll like. I’ll give it if you cover for me.” She says smugly, jabbing a thumb at the bag on her back. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at her, and she mimics the expression. 

“I won’t make any promises save for that I will do my best.” 

Anselma considers this. “And I want twenty francs.”

“I’ll give you ten.”

“Deal.” Anselma grins at him and swings the bag off of her shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs, I’m hungry.”

Enjolras snorts. “You’re always hungry.”

“I need some way to get bigger than you. Oh, and Achille?”

“Yes?”

“Where are your trousers?”

 

The next morning begins, for Grantaire, five hours after he and Enjolras go their separate ways, and it begins with Enjolras rapping on every door of the top-most level of the house and demanding all of their attendance in the dining room promptly on the count of important news. Eponine groans and pulls a pillow over her head, cursing vehemently at Enjolras when he knocks on Grantaire’s door for the second time. Grantaire snorts at her tirade at her, heaving himself up. This earns him a flailing hand to the face and his own personal verbal attack as he dislodges Eponine, and he can’t help the laughter that shakes his body at that. “C’mon, Ep, you have to get up if you don’t want him to do it again.”

“I’m not above castrating you.” Is the only answer he gets in return, so he shrugs and hows to pull a shirt on. 

“You wouldn’t feel so awful if you hadn’t insisted on drinking most of the bottle yourself.”

“I wouldn’t feel this awful if you didn’t make me go to such extremes to get information out of you.”

“A pity you didn’t even get the information then.” He’s not above gloating. It’s a rare day that Eponine doesn’t wheedle information out of him over drinks. But, it’s also a rare day when Grantaire feels too full of overwhelming giddiness to get piss drunk. Eponine mutters several choice words about what exactly Grantaire can do with his good mood. 

Grantaire makes his way down to the dining room before Eponine and with a couple of minutes to spare before Enjolras begins with his impromptu meeting. He’s sitting at the head of the table with Combeferre, and they’re speaking in low tones with their heads close together. Grantaire doesn’t have time to feel bitter or the subsequent guilt, because Enjolras’ eyes flick up to meet his when he enters the room. Grantaire salutes him, almost mocking, and Enjolras’ face hardens. He turns his attention back to whatever Combeferre is talking about and Grantaire sighs inwardly. Bahorel already sits slumped over a mug of coffee and he seems to have been watching the subtle exchange. 

“Well,” he says with a wry smile as Grantaire sits beside him, “at least it wasn’t a glare.” 

Grantaire glowers at him. “There’s nothing like that happening anymore.” His words are far too fast and defensive, even to his own ears, and Bahorel tries and fails to stifle a laugh. 

“You’re hopeless.” He says. He lifts his mug in greeting to Éponine as Jehan pulls her into the room. “And you look like shit.”

“And she smells like alcohol.” Jehan says cheerfully. Bahorel turns to Grantaire, looking betrayed. 

“You drank without me?” 

“Oh, no. Grantaire barely drank.” Éponine says, lowering her voice pointedly. “He wouldn’t tell me where he found it either.” Jehan settles on Grantaire’s lap, resting their feet in Bahorel’s lap.

“Why not?” Jehan asks. They turn their two coloured stare at Grantaire and cup his face so that he can’t look away. Grantaire’s face heats under their scrutiny and then as he catches Enjolras watching the display. Jehan follows his gaze and then grins, smacking a palm against his chest. They open their mouth to say something when Feuilly bursts in with the slam of a door, saving Grantaire from further interrogation.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him expectantly as he stumbles to the seat next to Bahorel, buttoning his trousers after he leans his crutches against the table. He looks like he only just rolled out of bed. 

“I told you he’d fall back to sleep,” Jehan says to Bahorel in a very loud whisper. Éponine snorts. 

“Long night Feuilly?” She asks dryly. Bahorel chokes on his coffee and Jehan goes beet red. Feuilly covers his face with his hands with a groan that. Grantaire is abruptly thankful that Éponine had been waiting for him when he had arrived. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he had seen Bahorel naked, but he didn’t exactly crave a repeat performance. 

Luckily for the three, Enjolras chooses that moment to stand and begin the meeting. Combeferre, Grantaire notices, looks decidedly less amicable than he did when Grantaire walked in. His brow is furrowed as he reads over a stack of paper. 

“Alright. First thing is first: Eponine.” Eponine grunts at him from where she’s laid her head in her arms. “We probably need a better method of keeping Anselma inside the room, because this intelligence came from her last night.”

That gets Eponine to raise her head. She shoots a withering look at Grantaire. “You’re on babysitting duty tonight.” 

“Why are the brats  _ my _ responsibility now?” He asks, though he really doesn’t mind. He’s almost better with them than Eponine is, which is saying something. 

“Because I’m still going to be hungover tomorrow and I’m using your room to sleep it off.” 

Enjolras clears his throat and Eponine flashes him a saccharine smile. “Go on, Enjolras.”

His eyes sparkle with repressed laughter for a moment before he shakes his head and looks at Grantaire. “Last night, Anselma intercepted police reports detailing that the missing inspector from a year ago has been sighted with, and I quote, ‘a scrawny doctor often seen on the scene of riots with a bald man.”

Grantaire feels lightning spark through his veins. Bossuet and Joly. It has to be Bossuet and Joly. 

“That has to be-”

“But where’s Chetta?”

“Who are we sending?”

Enjolras raises his hand for silence, no longer looking at anyone. He shuffles his papers and casts a sidelong glance at Combeferre. Combeferre nods, mouth set in a firm line as if to say, ‘you’re right but I will not be content with this fact’. Enjolras allows himself a small, triumphant smile before he looks up at Les Amis again. “Bahorel, you still need to lay low. Your face is circulating the papers still. Jehan, we need you to fix up the tech in the house. Feuilly, you’re  _ supposed  _ to be on bedrest.” Feuilly grins sheepishly at Enjolras and Combeferre, shrugging. Bahorel bites his fist to stifle a laugh. 

“Technically nothing he’s done has required him to leave the bed,” Jehan says placidly, and Eponine smacks their shoulder, pretending to gag.

“I hate you. I hate you and I don’t want to think about any of your cocks.” Bahorel’s laugh bursts past his hand and Feuilly slumps down in his chair, arms over his face. Enjolras doesn’t look at all annoyed, and Combeferre is stifling a laugh. It feels good to hear their laughter, Grantaire realises. So much so that it’s impossible to be annoyed at.  _ Joly and Bossuet could be here too _ , his mind supplies, and he grins. 

“Alright Chief, who’s going then?” Grantaire asks when the chaos dissipates enough. The smile slides off of Combeferre’s face. Enjolras, though, looks exhilarated. His eyes drill into Grantaire’s, and Grantaire is near blinded by the force of it. He stares back, unwilling to let whatever moment they had last night weaken what little immunity he’s built up against him. “Well, alright. We need a team of two. You’re going,” He addresses Grantaire, and Grantaire sees Eponine lift her head to look between them, and he raises an eyebrow at Enjolras. He can’t be serious. 

“Do you really think that’s best?” He asks. Enjolras narrows his eyes, challenging. “The last time they saw me I was leading about fifty policemen into the Corinth. You can’t seriously expect them to run towards me when they see me?” 

“That’s why  _ I’m _ going with you.” 

 

“Are you sure about this?” Combeferre asks, handing Enjolras a syringe. Enjolras takes it in exchange for the alcohol soaked rag he had been wiping the skin of his stomach with, pressing it into the pinched skin with a hiss. 

“Yes, of course I am,” Enjolras says, handing the instrument back and tucking his shirt into his trousers. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t have turn towards Combeferre to see that his friend looks unimpressed and unconvinced. Enjolras stubbornly folds a shirt and places it into his bag, aware that he might as well admit defeat if he tries to explain just how  _ fine _ he is with going scouting with this nuisance turned enemy turned acquaintance. He will be fine sharing the room of an in with Grantaire. They’re both two years more mature, two years different. They haven’t even had a proper argument in two years. 

“You know why,” Combeferre says, tense in a way he very rarely is, and it occurs to Enjolras that it’s possible that Combeferre isn’t referencing his volatile history with Grantaire. The repressed panic of leaving Combeferre for any amount of time creeps back into Enjolras’ mind. His hands falter in their movements and his heart stutters. 

“Yes. I know why,” Enjolras takes a deep breath, and then two, and then he turns to face Combeferre. His brow is furrowed, mouth turned down with worry. “I can’t promise anything, you know that.” 

“I know,” Combeferre says with a sigh. “But please try not to get into more trouble than you absolutely must?”  _ There are only two of us left _ , goes unspoken. Enjolras crosses to Combeferre and pulls him into a tight hug. 

“I will.” He says as Combeferre tightens his arms around him. “I’ll see you within the week. Probably sooner, and I’ll run updates to you as much as I can. I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know any thoughts you have and thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip is made, misunderstandings are had, everything would be much less complicated if certain citizens would simply speak their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyy long time no see? i've been graduating and applying for jobs and finishing a huge commission and other general brain gunk that comes with transitioning and mental illness. anyway, enjoy this chapter soaked in pining! both of them are idiots.

They depart two days after the announcement in the early morning, taking Grantaire’s bike and piling their bags into the small sidecar. Enjolras frowns at the set up as Grantaire walks out behind him, locking the heavy front door with its elaborate mechanics that Jehan designed and refused to explain to him when Enjolras asked about it. “We will be here for weeks talking about improvements if I try,” they had cited, fingers fidgeting with some wiry contraption attached to a light bulb. Enjolras had asked them about the workings of a lightbulb instead. Jehan, unable to help themself, had indulged him. 

“Alright, that should be everything.” Grantaire says, sidling up next to him. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. “What?” His tone is defensive, and Enjolras hates his own face for being so expressive. 

“Where am I meant to sit?” Enjolras asks him, having already settled on the most likely answer. He can’t decide whether the idea excites or terrifies him. Pressing close to Grantaire’s warm body, feeling his muscles flexing through the fabric of his clothes. Having no choice but to hold tight as Grantaire guides both of them, to their destination-- 

“Behind me? I thought that you couldn’t drive.” Grantaire’s tone is  cautious, almost nervous, and Enjolras let out a sharp breath. 

“I can’t.” He says shaking his head to clear it of the buzzing panic within it. “Never mind, it hadn’t occurred to me before now. Let’s go.”

Grantaire shoots him one last quizzical look, then seems to think better of pressing Enjolras further and he straddles the bike. Enjolras forces his breath steady and wills his heart to stop it’s too-fast hammering. He climbs on behind Grantaire. “Do I just… hold onto you?” He asks, not wanting to overstep or to assume. Grantaire goes still, and then he chuckles. 

“If you don’t want to fall off, you probably should.” Enjolras sneers at the back of Grantaire’s head, biting his tongue bitterly, but the sound of the engine startles him, and he lurches forward, clinging to Grantaire, modesty all but forgotten. He ignores the rumble of Grantaire’s laughter- focuses instead on keeping his eyes shut tight and his body firmly on the bike. 

Once they get going, it gets a bit easier for Enjolras to breathe. Grantaire’s heartbeat is steady against his cheek and in his ear where the side of his face is pressed to his back. The wind is cool where it whips his hair into a frenzy, but the sun hits his back perfectly as it emerges over the horizon. He feels warm, and if the warmth came from anyone but Grantaire, he might have felt secure. 

But as it is, Enjolras has a guilty, lingering suspicion of the man. Guilty, because Grantaire had saved his life. Lingering because Enjolras can’t shake the image of Combeferre’s blood staining his shirt and then the snow under him when Grantaire had hit him. It was unintentional, he knew, but it didn’t make reconciling with Grantaire’s apparent innocence any easier. 

When they finally stop, Enjolras’ thighs ache and he finds that it is harder to keep his eyes open every time he blinks. He’s tired enough that he allows Grantaire to help him off of the bike. He will not, however, allow Grantaire to carry all of their luggage in, and he tells him this firmly. Grantaire seems to have other things on his mind, because he concedes without so much as his usual griping. Or, well, usual from what Enjolras remembers. 

He lets Grantaire lead them into the inn, lets him make small talk with the Innkeep and then, when he's swaying on his feet, lets him lead him up to their room. Enjolras collapses onto the bed, not bothering with his coat. It’s his ears playing tricks on him when Grantaire huffs out an affectionate, “awh” before he leaves, but the idea of it makes him feel warm. He’s dead to the world before he can think too much of it.

 

The rag that hits the side of Grantaire’s head as he steps back into the tavern is entirely expected, and Grantaire grins as his assailant. “Good evening, Madame.” He says. 

“You have a lot of gall to grin at me like that after the amount of worrying I’ve done over you.” Madame Hucheloup squawks as she steps around the bar and reaches up to grab his face and turn it back and forth. Grantaire allows her, failing to stifle a grin. He receives a cuff upside the head for his trouble. The old woman releases him after that, smiling in spite of herself. “I swear, you’re the reason I’m going grey so quickly.” 

“I’m sure that’s entirely the case.” Grantaire indulges, and she grumbles about reckless children as she takes his payment for the room. 

“So, Grantaire, who is your lovely new friend?” She asks as he settles down at the bar, pouring him a drink. She catches whatever expression Grantaire must make at that, because she chuckles. He takes a long sip to give himself time to answer. 

“Not really a friend, Madame.” He sighs at her disbelieving look. “ Alright, alright. It’s complicated. We’re here to reacquaint with some mutual friends who might not be so happy to see me, but they will be happy to see him -the man I’m here with, I mean. Achille is injured, though, so it was agreed that I should accompany him.” Madame Hucheloup looks at him with an exasperated, impossibly fond expression. Grantaire doesn’t want to read too far into that, so he plows on. “I was otherwise indisposed, you see, and I travel the most out of any of his, well, I’m not a friend, out of any of the others who might have come with him, so it did make the most sense, at the end of the day, and-” 

“My dear,” Madame Hucheloup holds up a hand to stop him. “You need not explain yourself to me. I only mean to suggest that you are far more gentle with him that I have seen you with any of your other friends.” 

“I told you,” Grantaire’s voice is gruff, and his face is suddenly very warm. “I don’t think he’d consider me a friend.”

“But you would consider him a friend?” 

“Well, as I said, it is very complicated.” 

“I see.” 

Grantaire groans and drops his head onto the bar. “I should turn in.” Hucheloup laughs loudly. “I  _ should _ .” He does his very best not to sound petulant. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” 

She waves him off, still grinning smugly. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

 

Enjolras is awake when Grantaire walks in, which is convenient because Grantaire wants to ask if he might borrow a pillow so that he might sleep on the floor. Hucheloup’s smug farewell makes a lot more sense, Grantaire thinks, because there is only one bed. 

The red coat is draped the back of a chair along with what Grantaire assumes are the clothes Enjolras  plans to wear the next day. The man himself is sat on the floor, running a comb through his hair as he pours over a book. He’s dressed in his smallclothes, and the planes of his face are illuminated by the light of the lamp he has set in front of himself, soft and placid. Grantaire aches. 

Enjolras looks up when he closes the door behind himself and nods once. “I was wondering when you’d be up. We should both get some sleep.”

Grantaire is taken aback by how collective he makes the act of sleeping sound. “You…” he trails off, trying to choose his words carefully. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

Enjolras frowns at him. “Of course I did. I had to ask if you would mind me taking a pillow from the bed tonight.”

“I- you- what?” Grantaire gapes at Enjolras who stands from what Grantaire realises is an extra blanket. The context pieces itself together in his mind and makes no more sense collectively than it did scattered. “Enjolras, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

Enjolras looks at him appraisingly. “I can’t?” Grantaire wonders if Enjolras possibly sustained more severe brain trauma than Combeferre had assessed, because there’s no way that Enjolras would be surrendering the bed to Grantaire. 

“No,” he says, trying to keep his tone patient. “You can’t, Enjolras, you’re still recovering.”

“And you drove all day!” Enjolras says. Grantaire is struck belatedly by the realization that Enjolras would rather risk setting back the healing of his injuries than share a bed with him. So much for a truce. 

“I’ll take the floor. I’ve slept on worse.” Grantaire tries, and he’s met with a fiery glare. 

“So have I. It doesn’t mean you should.”

“It doesn’t mean  _ you _ should either.” Enjolras closes his mouth with a snap. Grantaire heaves a sigh. “Look, Apollo, I understand that you don’t want to share a bed with me. That doesn’t mean you have to be the one to take the floor.”

Enjolras’ expression goes from determined to confused and then to  _ nervous _ \-  _ what? _ \- in the span of a moment. “Oh.” Is all he says after a long pause. Grantaire begins to unbutton his waistcoat with a heavy sigh. “I’ll take the floor. Just leave a pillow next to the blanket before you sleep.” Grantaire steps into the washroom to wash his face and clean his teeth, hoping that Enjolras will be asleep when he emerges.  _ Oh  _ he repeats in his head, just a bit bitter. He doesn’t know what to make of that response, except that Enjolras had sounded very small and unsure, which reminds Grantaire of the way he had pressed into his hand while he had been too out of it to recognize him. It was too vulnerable. More vulnerable than Grantaire deserves to witness, anyway. He doesn’t even want to try to unpack  _ why _ Enjolras had sounded that way. 

Stepping back into the room, he finds Enjolras sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a pillow to his chest, bottom lip between his teeth. His hair hangs in a loose braid over his shoulder, ringles escaping to frame his face. Grantaire loves him horribly. 

When Enjolras looks at him, there’s something unreadable in his eyes, that same look the night he had offered Grantaire their truce. “I wouldn’t mind sharing the bed with you.” He says plainly. “I had assumed that you wouldn’t want to share it with me.” He says this as though it makes sense. Grantaire gawks at him, and he must be taking too long to respond because Enjolras’ face clouds over and his hands tighten on the pillowcase. “Oh, alright. I can still take the floor then, of course, that’s alright.” He sounds hurt, of all things, and that’s what snaps Grantaire out of his screaming thoughts.

“No!” He says, maybe too loudly from the way Enjolras jumps. Grantaire holds up his hands and tries again. “No, I don’t mind sharing the bed. I assumed the same. Well, the opposite of you, but, you know what I mean.” Enjolras’ lips curl into a smile, which knocks the breath out of Grantaire. He’s thankful, because it means he stops talking. 

“Well, to bed then?” He asks, and Grantaire pulls himself together enough to nod and climb under the covers with Enjolras. He lays on his back, closing his eyes and praying that Enjolras can’t somehow smell his fear, or something of that kind. He listens to Enjolras’ breathing slow as he shifts around and finally settles, facing Grantaire. 

The bed is big enough that they both can lay comfortably without touching, but it’s small enough that Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ breath on his neck. Grantaire opens his eyes and fixes his gaze resolutely on the ceiling, taking in absolutely none of the details. His attention is firmly focused inward as he wills himself not to look at the man beside him. Looking would make keeping his snide comments in check that much harder, he knows this. Looking would make the ache in his chest that much worse, he knows this. It would hurt all the more when he brought Enjolras back and had to lose this stolen closeness. It was, logically speaking, a bad and unhealthy thing to do. 

Never let it be said that Grantaire has built his life on good and healthy decisions. 

He closes his eyes again and rolls onto his side so that he’s facing Enjolras. Then, before he can change his mind and preserve what degree of separation he still has for this undeserved intimacy he’s about to allow himself (that Enjolras, by virtue of not minding sharing the bed- the reason for which Grantaire is still unsure of- has allowed him) he opens his eyes. 

Enjolras’ soft lips are parted ever so slightly, though he’s breathing from his nose. They are parted because his pillow has pressed his cheek where it makes contact. He looks younger like this, so soft and placid. His hands are curled to his chest in loose fists, and Grantaire watches, rapt, as those clever fingers twitch ever so often. It’s as though he’s still penning speeches and rallying cries in his sleep. 

A few locks of hair have fallen over Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire can see his eyelids flutter every so often, and he wonders briefly if it might be enough to wake Enjolras. He is and always has been a restless sleeper as far as Grantaire understands it. Combeferre and Joly had always pestered him about the circles under his eyes  _ before _ , and he had once heard Combeferre grumbling about the rate at which Enjolras went through his good candles on sleepless nights. Grantaire considers it a miracle that Enjolras had fallen asleep so quickly and has, thus far, stayed asleep. 

He reaches out before he can think better of it and brushes the hair back and behind Enjolras’ ear. Then, realizing what he’s done, freezes. Enjolras shifts forward ever so slightly, a small smile tugging at his otherwise peaceful face. His eyes flicker open, unfocused, and then drift shut again. Grantaire doesn’t dare breathe despite how his arm has begun to cramp after holding so still. Carefully, slowly, he takes his hand out of Enjolras’ space and tries to breathe evenly. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he closes his eyes, too afraid to leave them open should Enjolras wake up in full. 

When nothing happens, when Enjolras’ breaths still come in even bursts, Grantaire wills himself to sleep. 

 


	7. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO.  
> I haven't posted in a Million years because I was graduating and then moving into college and then getting settled in college, and it was absolute fucking mayhem. But I'm Back, and this time, with a vague explanation as to what the fuck the setting of this AU is!
> 
> It's half dystopian, half steampunk, all incredibly self indulgent.

It’s the night of their second day in Paris when Enjolras finally finds a concrete lead. 

The sketch of the ‘missing’ inspector had not been an exaggeration, Enjolras thinks sourly as he observes the man from his hiding spot. He looks just as severe in person, if not more so. He stands with perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back as he speaks quietly with another man his age. The other man, who’s hair is completely white, looks much more amiable as he speaks. He even reaches out to touch the inspector’s arm gently once or twice, never lingering, despite them being hidden from prying eyes. Well, prying eyes other than Enjolras’. 

Enjolras had spotted the inspector leaving a different alley than this one and had trailed him here, climbing up to a window ledge that provided enough cover that, if he was still and silent, would allow him to listen unnoticed. 

“Javert,” the white haired man greets softly. The inspector, Javert, only nods in response, tipping his hat to the old man and allowing himself to be pulled into an embrace. “We could not have met somewhere else, hm? Not the inn?”

“No.”

The old man smiles softly. “I don’t mind. I would have met with you anywhere.” He laughs at whatever the inspector grumbles in response. “So, you say you have found him?” 

“I have found someone who I  _ believe _ is him, Valjean.” 

Another name that Enjolras tucks into the back of his mind. Valjean looks no less hopeful, and Enjolras wonders who in the world these men are after. The man’s son, perhaps? Or his grandson?

“I have spoken with the doctor and his friend, and I will give them the whereabouts of Euphrasie’s brother.”

Enjolras nearly falls out of his hiding place. Euphrasie.  _ Euphrasie _ . That fucking name. And this doctor. Could it be Joly? Could the friend be Bossuet? 

“Do you think…” Valjean asks, so quietly that Enjolras nearly doesn’t catch it over the volume of his mind. “Do you think it would be unwise if I accompanied them?”

Javert stayed silent for a long moment after that, and then gently, carefully, pulled Valjean into a hug. It was the first physical contact Enjolras had seen him initiate and judging by the way that Valjean seemed to freeze at first, it was a rare thing indeed. But Enjolras watches as his big, brown hands slowly come up to return the embrace, and both old men stay that way for a moment. 

“You will have to ask the boys. They have known him more than any of us. They will have a better idea as to he will respond to that.”

The patter of feet on cobblestones ring out into the alley, then, and the two pull away from each other so quickly that they might have never been touching. They drew back into the shadows, and Enjolras pulls out a knife. But as he braces himself to flee, he stops to listen to the sound of stumbling, then a voice biting out a quick curse. He  _ knows _ that pattern. The scuffling  _ trip-curse-continue _ that had been a common occurance with the movement of Bossuet. The old men seem to recognise the sound also, because Valjean steps out to look at the shadowy figure that stumbles into the alley. He relaxes, and motions to Javert, who takes a place just behind Valjean’s shoulder. 

“ _ Monsieurs _ ,” the figure pants in a voice that is undoubtably  _ Bossuet’s _ . Enjolras stops breathing, head spinning. 

Valjean closes the space between himself and Bossuet and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Breathe, Bossuet.” He says, gentle. 

Bossuet shakes his head. “I told you that the man you met in Maintenon, the man who showed you to your- to the house, that he was the one who sold us out.”  _ Grantaire _ , Enjolras thinks.  _ Fuck. _ “We ran into him.”

Valjean nods, and Enjolras can see the two old men exchange worried glances with one another.

“Where?” Javert says, voice sharp. Valjean looks at him in warning, but looks as though he wants the answer. 

“It’s alright, we’ve got him. He didn’t even try to fight us. I beamed him across the head, though. Just for good measure.” Bossuet grins, as though recounting it brings him as much pleasure as the actual action had. Enjolras can’t really blame him, he’d wanted to do the same. “He’s chained up in the parlor.”

“Then what was so urgent that you had to run here?” Javert says, voice clipped. Bossuet’s face falls. 

“When we found him, he tried to tell us that he’d come here _with_ _Enjolras._ And we don’t know what to do. ” 

The words hang heavy in the air. Enjolras stands silently in the window sill, reaching out into the open air to take hold of the drainpipe he’d climbed up on. He knows that these two old men are looking for him. He knows that Bossuet seems to trust them. He knows that the inspector Javert is no longer an inspector in affiliation with the law. He knows that if he wants to fix this situation, he’ll have to reveal himself. 

Valjean bows his head and takes a deep breath, but it’s Javert who speaks first. “You don’t believe him, surely.”

Bossuet looks conflicted. “He’s always been. Weird. About Enjolras.” And Enjolras has no idea what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but he also has missed Bossuet so much that he doesn’t want to waste any more time trying to figure it out. So he slides down the pipe, landing with a thud. It’s soft, but with the three men wound so tightly with nerves, they all hear. 

Bossuet’s attention snaps to him as the old men whirl around. Javert points a pistol at him, Valjean pulls a knife. Bossuet stands, watching him with wide eyes, as though he’s seen a ghost. 

Valjean’s hand too, slackens on the hilt of his weapon. Javert looks frozen and unsure. 

“I came here with him.” Enjolras says, and Bossuet makes a strangled noise. “It’s a ridiculously long story. Hello, Bossuet.”

Bossuet takes a few steps forward, studying Enjolras unblinkingly. He reaches out to touch Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras lets him, and then Bossuet is pulling Enjolras into a massive hug. Enjolras doesn’t hesitate to return it, fisting his hands into Bossuet’s coat. He’s shaking, Enjolras realizes. And both of them are crying, just a little bit. 

“You’re alive.” Bossuet says, then he laughs, pulling back to clap Enjolras on the shoulder. Enjolras grins up at him. 

“So are you.” He says. “It’s good to see you.” Bossuet hugs him again. Enjolras sees over his shoulder that Valjean has sheathed his knife and is silently commanding Javert to holster his pistol. When he catches Enjolras looking at him, he smiles, though his eyes look whistful. Sad, almost. 

“Hello, Achille.” He says. Enjolras’ mind grinds to a halt. He dislodges himself from Bossuet, eyes narrowing.    
“How do you know that?” Enjolras asks. Bossuet puts a hand on his arm. 

“It’s uh. You probably wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”

 

Bossuet was right, in a sense. Enjolras walks into a small house on Rue Plume, and Javert goes one way, and Valjean goes another, and Bossuet is opening his mouth, maybe to warn Enjolras, maybe to tell him to brace himself. But it doesn’t matter what Bossuet might have done, because there are a pair of identical eyes looking at him from a doorway, and Enjolras  _ knows _ those eyes, because there’s two freckles next to the left one that he doesn’t have, because  _ Cosette _ has them, and those eyes have them because that’s  _ Cosette _ looking at him. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he can guess that maybe it’s similar to what hers is doing.

And then he can’t see her face anymnore because her face is pressed into his neck and his is pressed into hers, and he’s crying, and Cosette is crying too, and he’s murmuring her name, because that’s the only fucking thing he can think, and he hears his own name being repeated back to him, because the two of them have always been frighteningly synchronized. 

When they calm down enough to lift their heads and look at each other again, Enjolras pulls back to inspect his sister. Cosette takes his face in her hands, examining the fading bruise on his cheekbone, the scar on his lip from where it split over his tooth one time. The knotted scar that runs from his temple to his jaw. He lifts his own hands to touch the scar that runs over her left eye, the place in her nose that doesn’t quite run straight, probably from it being broken. One of her teeth is broken when she grins at him, and he laughs, giddy with disbelief and excitement, and he shows her that the opposite tooth in  _ his _ mouth is broken too. And then they’re laughing and crying all over again, talking over each other in broken sentences, ‘I love you’s and ‘I’ve missed you’s that sprawl out of both of their mouths as they hold tight to one another. 

After they’ve both calmed down and trailed into silence they just stand there, resting their foreheads together, eyes closed.  

Even when they finally come back to the world around them, they don’t release eachother. Valjean is standing by the door that Cosette had come from, and he quickly wipes at his eyes. Cosette gives a bright, teary laugh. “Oh, Papa.” She says. Enjolras looks at her. 

“This is the man who-”

“--took me from the Thenardiers--”

“--after that bastard--”

“--pig-shit--”

“--excuse for a man--”

“--took you.” 

Enjolras looks at Valjean cautiously, and the old man doesn’t seem at all offended by this. “Hello, Monsieur.” He says, suddenly feeling very out of place. “It’s. Very nice to meet you.” Cosette snorts, and then presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. 

“He won’t bite, Achille.” She says, and Enjolras flushes. 

“I didn’t think he would, I just,” he flounders for a minute. “I just, I,” Valjean looks at him kindly, gently. 

“If I may?” He asks, and Enjolras cannot handle how tender his voice is, but Cosette is still holding onto him, and he doesn’t plan on letting her go for the next eternity, so he stays put and when he realizes that the old man is waiting for  _ his _ permission to speak, he nods shakily. “I would like to tell you that you may treat this space as though it has always been your home, if you are comfortable with that. I understand that your… the man who took you from Cosette wasn’t the most pleasant.”

The twins snort in unison, and then glance at eachother. Cosette grins at him, and Enjolras smiles back. 

“Papa, I don’t think you’ll offend anyone by speaking your mind.” Cosette says. Valjean only smiles indulgently at her before he turns his attention back to Enjolras. 

“I only look to provide you the comfort that I have brought your sister. I will follow your lead Achille.” 

Enjolras doesn’t realize that he’s crying until he opens his mouth to respond and all that comes out is a sob. He flushes, embarrased. “Forgive me, I am not usually like this,” he says, but Valjean is already waving his worse away. 

“Do not trouble yourself over it. It’s a lot to take in, what with two reunions in such a short time. Unfortunately I don’t think the night will get any easier.” 

And it’s at that moment that Courfeyrac bursts through a door and flings himself at Enjolras.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think and please leave kudos if you enjoyed this and want to see more!


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